Take That frontman. Head judge on the X Factor. Jubilee concert organiser. Philanthropist. Father. Insulter of Tulisa’s “fag-ash breath”. There are so many strings to Gary Barlow OBE’s bow that it’s easy to forget he’s also one of our finest songwriters. He’s just sold out a 17-date solo arena tour in mere minutes, so this performance in an intimate inner-city church had a yummy mummy-heavy audience thrumming with excitement. “Sorry God, we worship Gary,” read one banner in the crowd.

It was the opening night of Little Noise Sessions, an annual week of gigs in aid of Mencap, now in its seventh year. Curated by Radio 2 DJ Jo Whiley, it attracts starry names to the unlikely venue of St John-at-Hackney in East London. Last time I was here, it was for a children’s summer fete. We threw wet sponges at the vicar. He was skulking at the back here, nursing a pint but presumably on his guard in case of sodden missiles.

Billed to play 35 minutes, the dinner-suited Barlow dismissed the very idea. “Half an hour?” he snorted with dapper derision. “We don’t play half an hour.” Him and his black-clad band promptly played for double that, to the whooping delight of the crowd. Well, once they’d texted the babysitter to get 30 minutes grace.

A 16-song set mixed solo material with Take That classics (Back For Good, Pray, A Million Love Songs) and their post-reformation arena anthems (Shine, Patience, Greatest Day). He had an old pro’s patter, recognising “familiar faces down the front” and instigating a “ladies vs fellas” sing-off. Ladies won by a mile.

There were cheeky references to his parallel life on a certain singing contest. He described his nemesis, contestant Rylan Clark, as “absolute s****” and was sarcastic about the show’s love of mash-ups, pointedly insisting that stringing a few ballads together was, “A medley. I don’t do mash-ups.”

Barlow’s wilderness years before Take That’s triumphant comeback might have been hard for him, involving depression and pies, but they did him a favour long-term. Despite being a millionaire heart-throb, he retains underdog status, radiating love of pop and sheer delight in performing his own back catalogue. At the piano, he nearly jigs off his stool. At the mic, he’s all clenched fists and stomping feet. It’s endearing, especially when he breaks into an old Take That dance routine during Pray.

A shamelessly naff yet infectiously joyous evening ends on a mass singalong of Rule The World, which also closed the Olympics. And with that, it’s back to relieve the babysitter.